| Monuments or continents I’ve never been on
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| Who thought our career was ever this long
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| We came in strong, your reign is a shower
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| Go against the storm and you gone
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| Call me Ernie Bonds with a mic
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| Picasso with a melody, with a felony
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| 'Cause my streets is nothing like Sesame
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| Raw like The Wire, minus all the pleasantry
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| You’re sitting on the throne with three legs
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| Got niggas in the state, got niggas in the feds
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| Got niggas that’s dead and the ones that’s alive
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| It ain’t no surprise, got demons in their head
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| I dance in France, leave them in a trance
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| Tell I’m a B-Boy in my B-Boy stance
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| Red apples and everything’s berry
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| And ain’t shit changed, party-arty in my veins
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| Call me Air France, been high since the plane
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| Fly since the days of running 'em, Keith’n 'em
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| Christen 'em, teaching 'em
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| And my heart is on the block, that’s the place that I’m speaking from
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| I’m 8-Tre Jones, I’ll put out the payphones
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| wearing the unseen alligator vests
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| I’ll lay alligators to rest, I lean with the El Dorado
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| I got the chick shaving the hair off my balls in Chicago
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| Maximillion, ask the kings about the Don
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| The kufi on the 5 Percenter
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| Sitting in the back of the GMC limo, they call me Hasan
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| My neighbors cooking that Italian pastram'
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| My boss Cici’s a a brand-new arm
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| From Guam, rappers keep hair growing in their palms
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| Allah on the rug, y’all pray to ride a dong
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| You see my spot in the forehead
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| That makes me explode my self with bombs
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| Supreme uniquely, supreme and sheikhly
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| They call me the Iron Speakly
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| That’s right, you see me in the LA Weekly
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| Captain Shock-A-Lot with a bad bitch from the projects spitting on my cock |